


Your Half-Awake Eyes

by illusemywords



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Sick Wilde, Sickfic, Very vaguely set in the Japan arc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:08:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27696053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illusemywords/pseuds/illusemywords
Summary: Wilde is sick, Zolf takes care of him.That's it, that's the fic.
Relationships: Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 10
Kudos: 63





	Your Half-Awake Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> This started off as 'Wilde is grumpy when he's sick' but then it got soft oops.
> 
> Title from the bluest things on earth by the wonder years.

Wilde doesn’t get sick often, but when he does, he makes sure everyone around him knows about it. He doesn’t actually say anything, but he just acts in a way that makes everyone around him aware. Coughing, groaning, complaining that he’s going to die.

Pointedly going into the kitchen, blankets wrapped around his shoulders, clutching an empty teacup. In lieu of a greeting he just groans weakly, making a fresh cup of tea and immediately sipping it despite the water still being boiling hot. He looks, quite frankly, pathetic. Maybe this is why Zolf takes pity on him.

He guides him back to his room, making sure he gets into bed – and stays there – and then he goes back to the kitchen. When he returns to Wilde’s room an hour later, he has a tray carrying a fresh teapot and a large bowl of homemade soup. He shoulders open the door and finds Wilde almost exactly where he left him.

The covers are crumpled, showing how much Wilde has been tossing and turning. Wilde himself is groaning quietly. The floor is littered with used tissues and empty teacups.

“Sit up,” Zolf says quietly, putting the tray down on the chair next to Wilde’s bed. Wilde opens his eyes, squinting blearily up at Zolf.

“I’m dying,” he croaks, and Zolf laughs quietly.

“I’m sure it feels like it. You’ll feel better if you sit up and eat something.”

With much grumbling, Zolf manages to get Wilde up into a seated position. As soon as his upper body has left the covers, Wilde starts shivering. Zolf grabs a spare blanket, wrapping it around his shoulders, before handing him the bowl of soup.

Wilde hunches over it, breathing in the steam deeply. Zolf doubts he can really taste anything with his sinuses as clogged up as they seem to be, but hopefully the frankly ridiculous amounts of ginger he put in the soup will help some.

He stays as Wilde slurps down the soup, watching him savour the way the warm liquid soothes his aching throat. His nose is running by the end of it, which Zolf takes as a good sign. He quietly hands Wilde some tissues.

“You should take a bath too.”

Wilde groans softly. “That sounds like it involves getting up,” he croaks.

“It does, but you’ll feel better. Trust me.”

And Wilde… does, it seems. Trust him, that is. He at least gets up, still wrapped in a million blankets, shuffling off towards the baths.

While he’s gone, Zolf goes about changing the sheets. Just as he suspected, they’re soaked through with sweat. He makes a mental note to check Wilde’s temperature when he gets back, just to make sure it’s not something he needs to worry about. In the meantime, he focuses on fluffing up the pillows and piling extra blankets on Wilde’s bed.

Wilde comes back from the baths, hair unruly and soft in a way Zolf has never seen it. He’s looking decidedly less pathetic now, but he still crawls back into bed, disappearing under the fresh blankets.

Zolf sits down in the chair next to Wilde’s bed. “Do you want another cup of tea?”

“No thank you,” he says, and Zolf thinks his voice might be sounding a little bit better.

“Okay, then let me just check your temperature, and then I’ll let you rest.”

Wilde closes his eyes when Zolf lays his hand across his forehead. He feels a bit warm, but nothing to worry about. It’ll probably go down by itself if Wilde allows himself some more sleep and maybe a few more bowls of soup.

“I’ll leave you to get some sleep,” Zolf says, starting to remove his hand from his forehead.

He doesn’t expect the way Wilde’s head follows him as he moves, the small whine that Wilde lets out. “Don’t go,” he says, so softly Zolf could have imagined it.

And Zolf can’t help but comply, staying in the spare chair next to Wilde’s bed. He hesitates only for a moment before putting his hand back on Wilde’s forehead, slowly moving his fingers soothingly across the warm skin. He gets a sudden urge to run his fingers through Wilde’s hair, and before he can think about it too much, he does. His hair is still damp, but unbearably soft, and Wilde all but melts into his touch.

“How are you this good at this?” Wilde asks, opening his eyes to squint up at Zolf curiously.

“What, taking care of sick people?” Zolf asks. “Well, I am a cleric. Healing people is kind of what we do – not always with magic. And I’ve had a lot of practice.”

“Hmm,” Wilde hums, closing his eyes again. “Well, lucky me, then.”

Zolf stays by Wilde’s side, slowly carding his fingers through his hair until he falls asleep. He hopes idly that he’ll feel better when he wakes up. 


End file.
